Fever Dream

"You're thirty-five years old. Get up." Her voice jangles like bells around your head.
"Are you sure?" you reply, wriggling deep into the nest you've crafted on your uncomfortable mattress, a haphazard fort fashioned with several blankets, three boxes of tissues, and your couch cushions. She doesn't ask how you had the energy to get up and move all of said items while you were bedridden with the veritable plague. You don't answer.
"Come on, I'm not playing any more, Don."
"Take pity on the fatally ill."
"I'll be sure to head down to the children's hospital later." she says sardonically,
"Because that makes sense! What's there? Sick children? Pfft."
"Do you hear yourself?"
"Not really."
"Here just come out of there I'll give you some dayquil and some orange juice and we'll head out."
"Where will we even go?"
"Would you believe me if I said Lenny's Ladies?" she tries, playfulness seeping into her voice. You smile in spite of yourself.
"No." you say, letting your grin curl into your words.
"We have to finalize our divorce, okay? And this is the only day my attorney has available for a month."
"Do you really want to get rid of me that much?" You falter, peeking out at her. She's got this look of exhaustion around her eyes; makes you feel awful. You turned a youthful twenty-two year old woman and made her a haggard thrity-five year old. You love her even more now; the sleep pulling at her mouth strumming your heartstrings as much as her sparkling blue eyes once had.
"I'm sorry, Don, you know that it's just..." She trails off, looking down at her feet. The crown of her head is turning blonde again; she'll need to redye it. You used to do it for her. She's always said being a waiflike blonde and a bussiness one is a surefire way to have everyone think you run some herbal hippie crap, so she dyed her hair dark brown and gained a few pounds. She has it cut short, and it's turning reddish because she's forgotten to go to the salon, in the whirlwind that is your divorce. It makes your mouth feel dry and taste sour, makes you want to plead, beg on your knees for another chance. You keep reminding yourself why you're doing this.
"How's Frank?" you say bitterly as you rise. Your long dark hair is flattened on one side, and you're sure you look like a deflated cat.
"Don't do this, Donna." She says sharply, and hands you your cup of dayquil, which you reject and take a swig out of the bottle on your bedside table instead. You cough a little, and wipe your mouth like you're trying to erase it, and snatch the thermos out of her other hand.
You can't believe she came out all the way to your apartment for this. You guess Frank is the One. You can feel your gut twist with that thought. You are the One. You were, at least. Apparently ten years was just a "phase". A rebellion against her parents. You don't buy it for a second. She was gay as a maypole five years ago. She couldn't have built a life like that, struggled like that if she didn't mean it, could she? You don't remember separating, but you can feel it, dark and dank down in your stomach, the floor dropping out from under you as you fell to your knees and cried, cried like a small child, with snotty, chest heaving sobs that left you feeling broken and clean, like you scrubbed your insides raw. You shed your skin like a snake, peeling away the wrecked, flaky skin in a way that only hurt more than being stuck inside of it, but felt smooth and fresh afterwards.
You don't remember driving to the courthouse, or getting dressed, really. Everything is a blur since she left you. You don't know if you'll ever be focused again.
Frank is waiting on the steps leading up to the grand entrance to the attorney's office. He's around forty if you're being generous, a mild mannered man who is going prematurely gray, with a small, birdlike frame. His eyes are strikingly brown, golden almost, reminds you of the fat bank account he's tucked into. There is neither man nor woman who is good enough for Lydia, yourself included, but he sure as hell isn't either. He slides an arm around her, steering her away from you gently. You could probably beat him in a fight. Instead, you stare off into the distance like a petulant child.
Somehow you end up in a room that smells like old cigar and good brandy, sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair that probably costs more than your car. It's a small conference room, heavy and ornate, a solid round oak table at the center. You don't doubt Frank dropped a pretty penny on this lawyer, which is unnecessary. Mechanically, you flip through the pages, browsing like it's a skymall maganize, looking up over the rims of your glasses, which you're sure you weren't wearing before. It's all gibberish. The lawyer, who looks like a cross between nosferatu and bruce wayne has a smile like plastic and a voice like water. You glance over at Lydia, who's mouth has formed a determined frown, and scoff lightly.
"Excuse me, ma'am, we have to finish going over section three o' four, subsection b-twelve,"
"Shut your piehole, Eric." you growl, and circle around the table to Lydia, who stares at you uncomprehendingly. You grab her arms with bruising strength and whisper,
"Lyd, it can't end like this. Till death do us part, remember?" You're crying now, and the dayquil isn't working, and you're sniffling and dripping all over ten thousand dollars worth of persian rug.
Lydia cups your face in her hands, and hey she's crying too, she hardly ever cries, and then-

And then Donna Maybell wakes up to her loving wife, who is about 6 feet away, pressed up against their bedroom door. Lydia Maybell has a surgical mask on, eyes wide and crazed.
"You are sick Don, don't touch me, I have a big meeting with my investors today and I can't afford to sneeze on them," she warns, but Donna doesn't listen, flinging her weak legs over the side of their marital bed and hobbles over, throwing her noodle arms around her only love.
"DON, PLEASE!" she shrieks, but she's laughing as her wife dribbles onto her neck.
"I love you," Donna mutters, pausing her nuzzling to sneeze into her sleeve.
"Love you too, get back in bed before I stab you." Lydia says softly, petting her wife's sweaty hair.
"You're gonna do great today. Don't ever leave me for a man named Frank."
"Of course, she's a woman."
"If I wasn't so sick I'd hurt you." Donna mumbles, eyes half closed as Lydia prods her back into bed.
"I know sweetheart, rest up, I left some medicine on the cabinet. I'll be back by six, latest." Lydia lists off, humming as she tucks Donna back in. Her wife sneezes violently into the covers, but Lydia pulls the mask down and kisses her temple anyways, quickly slipping out as Donna watches. 'Just a dream,' she thinks feverishly, 'just a dream.'

 

thanks.